never have to go to war no more
by kathleenfergie
Summary: Harry knew that he would never really, truly have what he wanted, even after all the fighting was over. His face would still be featured on the Prophet's front page and he would still be followed around, the flash of magical cameras blinding him with every step he took. Though he wished desperately that they would, no one would ever quite forget Harry Potter. Oneshot.


Okay, so this piece is a rewrite of something I wrote about a year and a half ago. My friend Clare and I had wanted to start a Harry and Draco collab but never really got to finish it, but this was my first Harry chapter. It's not exactly AU, but I guess it could be categorized like that. The title is from the song 'Go Wherever You Wanna Go' by Patty Griffin. Listen to it and cry.

Jo owns it all, folks.

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The darkness submerged Harry as he sat on the cold forest ground, doing his watch duty. Ron had just gone to bed, Hermione sleeping until it was her own shift. He knew that she'd wake up early and bring him something to eat, however, as she always did. Icy mist replaced the hot breath of his inhalation, and Harry noted that winter was coming fast to the Scottish wilderness. Soon the trio would have to transfigure their summer clothes into more weather appropriate ones. That thought made him chuckle darkly. Lately, it had dawned on him just how long the three of them might have to live that tent, moving from forest to forest.

Harry had realized that if they failed the mission they'd have to go home eventually. Ron and Hermione would have lots of curly, ginger babies, and they'd all live in their own duplicate version of the Weasley Burrow. He thought then of Ginny, and a longing poked at his heart. Their infatuation had been thus far unspoken, but Harry knew his interest in the female Weasley would not go away anytime soon. At the moment, though, he knew it would do no good to love someone; Voldemort would probably kill them before they got the chance to start anything.

_Oh, sorry, You-Know-Who, _he thought bitterly. Merely speaking the snake-man's name earned a nervous squeak from Ron and a sigh from Hermione. Harry found himself not caring, as he never stood the use of his enemy's pseudonyms. There were so many frightened people because of that one man, and what Voldemort made Harry feel was leagues beyond fright. Harry's mind went blank when he thought of or faced Voldemort. What scared him is that he didn't - _couldn't _- feel anything towards the man who had almost killed him along with his parents. He simply didn't know what to feel.

You-Know-Who. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Lord Voldemort. Tom Riddle. They were all such _meaningless_ titles.

Just like Golden Boy. The Chosen One. The Boy Who Lived. So many titles, and they meant _nothing _to him.

He had told Hagrid that night, that he was _'just Harry_.' Just Harry. So many people had whispered his name behind his back, pointing and gaping as he walked through the halls of Hogwarts. After he'd fought at the Ministry, so many people just stood there and stared at him. He hadn't even done half the work, his friends had done so much and they were forgotten while Harry's face was plastered onto the front page of the _Prophet._

The prophecy - their prophecy - floated through Harry's mind; _neither can live while the other survives_. Harry was pretty sure that his death would be the end of all this, a fact he'd accepted. Harry was either going to die trying to kill Voldemort or by Voldemort's own hand, and there was no use in trying to stop that.

There had been so many incidences where it should have been Harry in mortal danger. He should have been paralyzed in the hospital wing; almost dead on the floor of the hospital wing; killed by Voldemort after he and Cedric touched the cup. That night in Godric's Hollow, Harry should have died, with Lily and James Potter living a long life. They should be the famous ones, not little Harry Potter.

What was even worse was that he couldn't bring himself to mourn them.

Sure, he loved them. Harry did in some way, they were his parents for Merlin's sake. Something inside Harry loved the women that had thrown herself in front of Voldemort, and the man who had died on the staircase meters away from them, trying to protect his family. Harry loved them, he did, but the love only amounted to what he might feel for an uncle or a cousin he never saw. There were days when he thought he loved the Weasleys more. It was because he didn't know them - James and Lily. He knew their names, how they lived, what they looked like, but Harry didn't _know _them. He didn't know their favourite memories or colours, he didn't know what they loved about each other or what they had thought of him when he was born. When he was still a little boy, Harry saw his parents in the Mirror of Erised, because he longed for them. Not fame, not glory, not anything like what he had now. Harry had only wanted loving parents. It was what he needed after years of the Dursleys.

Harry wished that the Horcruxes had never existed, that Voldemort had turned to dust and ash after their first encounter with the Philosopher's Stone.

He reached his hand down the front of his shirt, bringing the locket horcrux out into the night air. Bringing it over his head, he watched as the serpent encased within the glass covering slithered and glinted in the moonlight, acting as though it was truly alive. He breathed out a sigh, relishing in the moments he was able to take the damned thing off. Every time he did he could feel the cloud wrapped around his mind lift. Though it lingered, it went away soon enough. It was unlike the permanent link between Voldemort and Harry. That bond acted as one of Harry's many disadvantages, the snake-man always able to search his head. As hard as Harry tried, he was not as skilled in Occlumency as he would like. It created a sour taste in his mouth to think that Dumbledore had wanted him to use him to gather information from Voldemort, that his pain was worth everything. For the _greater good_, whatever that was.

People had this crazy idea that using Harry to get to Voldemort was the smartest idea, while Harry stood there like a worm on a hook, terrified. He was fooling himself if he tried to act like he had any shred of Gryffindor bravery. There were so many things that Harry was supposed to do to help people, and he had no goddamn clue what he was doing. Dumbledore was _dead_, Snape had tyrannized Hogwarts, and all around Muggles were dying. Nowhere and no one was safe, not even good ol' Hoggy Warty Hogwarts.

Icy wind brushed Harry's face and he glanced around the clearing they currently resided in. A couple meters away he could see the faint blue glow of Hermione's wards. Though unnoticeable from the outside, he could see them now, and he found them quite beautiful. It seemed that she could do any kind of spell, no matter the context, and it turned out to be some of the most gorgeous things Harry's ever seen. He half smiled at the thought of Hermione's otter patronus, and Ron's jack russell terrier. He hadn't seen his own stag in a while. Harry was unsure if he would be able to cast a patronus anytime soon, he was far from happy.

'_Tempus,_' Harry muttered, flicking his wand. The time flashed before his eyes - _2:48 am_. Hermione would no doubt be up soon for her 3:30 shift. Harry found it difficult to sleep when Hermione was outside, though it was ridiculous, he didn't feel like she was safe enough. Harry knew his best friend could go up against any Deatheater and win, but he still worried about Hermione. Ron remained oblivious through it all, sleeping at almost any moment he could. After he carried the locket he would be out for a whole day, much to the annoyance of his friends. Harry though that Hermione was starting to sound like Molly Weasley with all the nagging and mothering she did to the two of them.

He let the moments pass as the wind became wilder, sweeping away every breath he took. As the moonlight illuminated the clearing slightly, Harry was able to watch small animals trek about. He had been so still that he did not disturb them, but they jumped away as soon as they heard the sound of the tent flap opening. A part of Harry wished to run away with them. He looked back to see Hermione exiting the tent, a bowl of broth in one hand and a blanket in the other. She extended the broth to Harry and he drank it slowly.

As she sat down, Hermione cast a warming charm over the both of them and then wrapped a blanket around their shoulders for added warmth.

'You looked cold when I checked on you, so I thought this would help,' she told him. Harry smiled softly at her, realizing that he must have been too deep in though to notice her. _Probably should pay more attention to your surroundings, Harry_. 'You can stay a little longer, I don't think I'm awake just yet,' she said, a yawn emitting from her mouth. Harry nodded and she put her head on his shoulder. 'Please try and get some sleep, Harry. I _can _hear you moving around in there.'

He grinned at that. _Yup, definitely Mrs. Weasley._

He still held the locket in his hand and Hermione took it from him, setting it in her lap. Harry didn't fuss as he knew he would have had to give it up eventually. That was the thing he hated most about his friends traveling with him, that they tried to help weigh out the suffering that came from the locket. Harry thought that he deserved the punishment of the locket, and that his friends should be at home.

'I don't like when Ron wears the locket, Harry. He gets very angry, and I don't think he wants to be,' she muttered softly, her face contorting into an emotion he couldn't read. 'It's sad to see how we all can change with its power. You get very quiet, I've barely heard a word from you the last few days. It just makes me feel lonely, and it makes me think of my parents.' Hermione sighed. 'But they're safe, that's all that matters.' It was said in a whisper, which led Harry to believe she said it more for herself than for him.

'I know.' Harry said. 'I miss a lot of people at the moment, but it's all for the good of the cause. They're safe at home.' He tried to reassure her. 'Meanwhile, we're out here doing Dumbledore's dirty work.'

'I know,' Harry replied, understanding. 'I miss a lot of people too, but it's what we have to do. They're safe, Hermione, at home.' He tried his best to reassure her. 'They aren't out here doing a dead man's dirty work.' Hermione did not miss the slight insult towards Dumbledore and she looked up at him sadly.

'Harry…' Hermione sighed.

'No, Hermione,' he countered. 'We may as well admit that the reason we are in this situation - hiding in a cold forest in the middle of a war - is his fault. He could have protected us and he chose to sit idly by while we went up against Voldemort time and time again. We were - are - _children, _Hermione! We have no idea what we are doing out here, trying to find unknown horcruxes, hiding from an inevitable battle. What did Dumbledore expect of us? All he gave us was a stupid light trinket and a child's story book, and a sword that wasn't even mine!' He huffed angrily. 'If it was, Hermione, it would have presented itself, and it hasn't because_ I am not worthy_. I'm not!' He snatched the locket from her lap and looked into its glass face, cursing its existence.

In a last attempt effort to relinquish his pent up anger, Harry stood up and hurled the object into the forest, steps away from Hermione's wards. He wanted desperately to shout curses at the bloody thing, but he knew that it would do no good. He had already tried several _Incendios _on it in the past, and the only result he got was the hissing of the glass as it pieced itself back together, the snake slithering back into an _s_.

Hermione gasped and ran to retrieve it, the blanket falling from her thin shoulders. Harry just stood there and watched her, angry - with Dumbledore, with Voldemort, and with himself. As she came back, she stopped a foot away from him and gazed into his flushed face.

'What are we _doing, _Hermione?' She reached out a hand, but he batted it away. 'We keep going from place to place, believing that _somehow _we can win this endless war, but we can't! If my parents couldn't, how can I? I'm not special, I'm not the _Chosen One_!' Harry's voice raised into a shout and he waved his arms as if that would help get the point across.

'Harry, hush, someone might hear you,' she pleaded.

'It's true and you know it! Everyone in the whole damn Wizarding world knows it!' Finally, the yelling did nothing to calm him, and it turned into distressed sobs. 'I'm _nothing_, Hermione, nothing. I don't know how to defeat Voldemort, as hard as I have tried.' He leaned forward towards Hermione, and she encircled her arms around his neck, clutching onto him with one hand and smoothing down his hair with the other. 'I don't know what to do, Hermione, I don't know what to do,' he sobbed into her shoulder.

'I know, Harry, I know that this is hard, that it seems impossible, but it can't be. Nothing is impossible, not when it comes to you.' She pulled back and held his face in her hands. 'We _all _believe in you, Harry, though you may not see it.' She wiped away a tear with her thumb and smiled up at him, his sad, green eyes staring back in complete distress. She embraced him again and squeezed his shoulders in comfort. 'You're just tired and scared, Harry, we all are. It's probably the aftereffects of the locket, okay? You'll be alright. You'll be fine.'

Hermione stepped away from him and brought a hand to his cheek. Harry leaned into her palm, his tears subsided. 'Try and get some sleep. You'll be alright in the morning. Okay?'

Harry nodded and turned away from her, pushing past the tent flap to enter into their temporary home.

Although he knew that it was most likely the locket that effected him, Harry still desperately wanted them all to go home. Or at least Ron and Hermione. They should be at home starting their batch of children. Upon entry, he could hear Ron snoring loudly, oblivious to the night's events, as always. It seemed like he had not a care in the world while Harry had them all. He exhaled heavily and walked over to his own sleeping area. Sitting on his bunk, he dropped his head into his hands. _Was it all really worth it, in the end?_ He wondered.

Part of him wanted to keep fighting to save the people he loved, and to begin a new life without war. He wanted to go home and start something with Ginny, something he'd been holding off for years because he was too afraid to get her involved in it all. He had no doubt that someone was probably keeping her company at the moment, the beautiful girl that she was, but he still pined for her.

The reason he like - loved, he had to admit - Ginny was that she saw him as Harry. Just Harry. Not the boy who defeated Voldemort as a baby, or the army leader that he was now. He didn't want her to be with him because of all the glory he'd gotten from Voldemort and the war.

_''an that's why yer famous…no one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you.' _Harry was reminded once more of Hagrid.

Harry desperately missed the Hogwarts groundskeeper and his warm attitude. He missed the nights spent in his small hut, the trio discovering new animals Hagrid was keeping for his class, while Fang slept idly by the fire. Harry longed for his life at Hogwarts, the early days when he still believed in himself.

Harry Potter wanted to be a regular seventeen year old, for once. He wanted to lounge around at the Burrow with all the Weasleys - as well as Hermione, Lupin and Tonks - and to just spend time in the company of the people he considered his actual family. He wanted comfort. He wanted stability._  
_

_Want, want, want._

Harry wanted so many things.

_Anything for Mr. Potter._

After years of being gifted with almost everything, people would no doubt be surprised that the _great _Harry Potter wanted for so many things.

He remembered Rita Skeeter and her horrible articles about him in the _Prophet. _She was most likely writing for Voldemort now, probably didn't want her blonde curls to be singed by the killing curse. Next time he saw that witch he'd probably flip her one.

Harry thought that Rita Skeeter, the old bat, should write about _that _in the evening _Prophet_. He knew she was most likely writing for the snake-man now. She probably didn't want her blonde curls to be singed by the killing curse. He reminded himself to flip her one the next time he saw her.

Harry wrapped his itchy sweater around him, wanting to keep in the warmth it provided. Molly had made it for him one Christmas, and it still provided more warmth than anything else he owned. He loved the thought that went into everything she made, and he realized that maybe that was why the sweater was so important to him, that it was made by love. Compared to the over sized shirts provided by the Dursleys, this was the richest thing Harry owned. A part of him longed to wear Muggle clothes all day and not have to deal with the magical world, to have Ron and Hermione by his side, chatting idly about their everyday life, but he knew it was an impossibility.

He yearned for comfort, for something simple.

Harry knew that he would never really, truly have what he wanted, even after all the fighting was over. His face would still be featured on the _Prophet's_ front page and he would still be followed around, the flash of magical cameras blinding him with every step he took. Though he wished desperately that they would, no one would ever quite forget Harry Potter. The thought of a camera made him think of little Colin Creevey, and that made him smile softly. One day he'd give the boy his autograph, if only it would make him leave Harry alone.

Harry wanted everything to be different. In some ways he wished that he had never existed, that his parents' death had never happened. People dying always connected back to him. He knew that everything would always be his fault, in the end.

_'That's not true, Harry, and you know it.'_ Hermione's calm voice entered his mind. He really loved that girl, like the sister he never experienced. She always found an optimistic look on things, and for that he was grateful. She did not put on a charade of bravery, she simply did the tasks she needed to even if she was terrified. Hermione believed that they would win, but she never glorified the war or the trio.

All Ron could think about was killing Voldemort and winning. He never seemed to focus on the fact that people were dying all around him, and Harry could not comprehend his coping mechanisms. Mixed with Hermione's realism and Harry's guilt, maybe Ron's blind bravery was what the three of them needed.

Ron's snoring was interrupted by a soft grunt and Harry sighed realizing that he should probably try and get comfortable. He tried to find a position that suited him. Compared to Ron's complex way of sleeping half on and half off the bed, Harry tended to sleep on his back with his arms on his side. He often woke up stiff, but he'd rather not fall off the small bunk.

Finally he closed his eyes, finding the ceiling not very entertaining to look at.

As Harry listened to Hermione violently cough outside the tent, he knew that he would be getting no sleep that night.


End file.
